


No One But You

by waltswhits



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, M/M, Multi, Other, Pining, Rewrite of the bookshop scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltswhits/pseuds/waltswhits
Summary: Rewrite of the bookshop burning scene, with some Queen for good measure.





	No One But You

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from Queen's [No One But You (Only The Good Die Young)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLKyaOLb2Fs).

_A hand above the water_  
_An angel reaching for the sky_  
_Is it raining in heaven_  
_Do you want us to cry?_

Crowley had rushed to his Bentley as soon as he could to meet Aziraphale. He turned the key in the ignition with a spark of thought and sped (quite literally, he drove at least 50 km over the speed limit, in rush hour, on his way there) to the bookshop they so loved (though if you asked Crowley, he’d probably sneer and say it was a musty hole and that he didn’t understand why Aziraphale liked it so much). He leapt out of the Bentley and turned the engine off with a snap. He walked down the block with a grin, looked up, and the grin melted into abject horror. 

_And everywhere the broken-hearted_  
_On every lonely avenue_  
_No one could reach them_  
_No one but you_

The bookshop. He thanked his sunglasses for covering his shocked tears. Who could have done this? Who would have _dared_? Crowley scowled, knowing that list would be longer than he’d like it to be. He stared at the flames, immobile. His heart burned like the timbers above his head. Crowley’s feet moved before he realized they had, taking him into the flames (to which he was immune, but his Aziraphale and his beloved materialism were horribly susceptible). He passed through the doorway, the licking flame like a warm bath, and gaped. 

_Another tricky situation_  
_I get to drownin' in the blues_  
_And I find myself thinkin'_  
_Well, what would you do?_

The bookstore was absolutely beyond repair- the shelves he had leaned upon so many nights drinking and laughing smoldered, the first edition Oscar Wilde collections on his display table like perfect dry kindling, the potted plant he had given Aziraphale last year that had been proudly placed in the window was nothing but ash. Aziraphale himself was nowhere to be seen, and he’d never let this happen, not over his dead body. Crowley choked a sob, and walked still deeper into the wreckage. 

_Yes, it was such an operation_  
_Forever paying every due_  
_Hell, you made a sensation _  
_You found a way through_ __

____

He walked towards the antique till, the metal already going red with heat, and sniffed in breath so full of ash. Crowley hated the smell of fire, of burning, of _falling_. He’d wondered once if they’d ever make Aziraphale fall, condemned like he had been so many centuries ago, cast out by those who’d called him ‘friend’ but laughed at his expense. 

_And now the party must be over_  
_I guess we'll never understand_  
_The sense of your leaving_  
_Was it the way it was planned?_

But this was even more reprehensible than that. What good did _this_ do? Who had written this line in the Great Plan? Where was the footnote saying that Heaven didn’t give second chances, not even second thoughts, to their own? When did they decide that Aziraphale wasn’t even worth _falling_? 

_And so we grace another table_  
_And raise our glasses one more time_  
_There's a face at the window_  
_And I ain't never, never sayin' goodbye_

Crowley turned around in the shop, watching over a century of careful collection turn into dust. All of those days he’d spent here, sprawled on the now-smouldering chairs, and the few nights he’d fallen asleep, at peace surrounded with the very essence of Aziraphale. Every conversation and bottle they had shared, every laugh and every tear, were going to disappear. He’d have nothing left of Aziraphale. They’d ripped away every part of him. 

_One by one_  
_Only the good die young_  
_They're only flyin' too close to the sun_

Suddenly, the emotion overtook him, and he fell to his knees. He knelt before the counter and prayed. For the first time in millennia, Crowley turned heavenwards, and begged for it to end. He plead for the soul of his friend, his best friend, his other half in near everything; and asked God _Why, Why,_ until his throat burned with ash. 

_Cryin' for nothing_  
_Cryin' for no one_  
_No one but you_

Alone in a burning building, Crowley wept, every tear making pale trails down his ash-covered face. He again remembered falling; and the darkness, despair, and vast emptiness that had overtaken him. Crowley sat there as the flames grew until a fireman carried him out of the building. He sat in his Bentley and clutched a book, the only thing he’d managed to carry out of the fire, and tried to imagine his life without Aziraphale (He couldn’t). He’d never even told him (those words he could never dare to speak aloud, but that had coloured his every breath for over a thousand years) that he _loved_ him. 

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY
> 
> Feel free to yell at me: [waltswhits on tumblr](http://waltswhits.tumblr.com/)


End file.
